


Unclean

by warmAsphalt



Category: Nobody's Home (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, and this time i'm not even going to try and give them character tags, as far as i know these characters don't have names, if you like tragic zombie shit it should be up your alley i mean this is p basic, you don't even have to know the game to read this really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23978008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmAsphalt/pseuds/warmAsphalt
Summary: [The inherent tragedy in knowing something is wrong with you (when that something is that you are dying and becoming a zombie).]The first and last thing you heard from me was a plea for help.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> back at this again ("this" being: writing something vagueish and short and Tragic directly following the basic events of some random media nobody else has written anything about on here for probably good reason)  
> the game's pretty short (there's a video of the gameplay and all 5 endings that's 46 minutes long) and only 3 bucks on itch.io so if you need the [admittedly minimal] context for this, its not too hard to find.
> 
> anyway this is first-person as the (girl?) in the shower that you come across, talking about "you" the player-character.  
> i might write more from the player character's perspective later because apparently my talent lies in writing... obscure nonsense possibly nobody'll read?

The first and last thing you heard from me was a plea for help.

It wasn't anything dramatic, not really, or anything special. Someone stole my clothes from the bathroom counter. I couldn't go much of anywhere without some.  
And you said you'd find me something, and that was that. You left.

I'd scrubbed gingerly, first. I thought there was no way the weird dark marks on my skin were anything but paint, or dirt, or maybe bruises. I didn't remember anything happening that would conclude in those, but it _was_ a house party. I _had_ been drunk all the night before. I hardly even remembered arriving here.  
And I can only guess you were the girl I saw passed out on the bed whenever I'd come to, covered in marks, and went straight for the shower.

But like I said to you... whatever this stuff is... it wasn't coming off. By the time we spoke I'd graduated to frantic scrubbing with the washcloth I'd found.  
You've been gone a minute or two now.  
I think... I think it's getting worse.  
I keep scrubbing, but these marks aren't budging. They don't hurt. If anything, I'm starting to think they're going numb.

_Oh please, please, please..._

I've slid down the wall of the shower to sit curled on myself on the tub floor. The marks have gone a greenish-greyish, they're spreading, oh god they're spreading and I don't want to see this.

How long has it been...  
I'm so... tired. I can't find the energy to be worried anymore, and _that_ worries me.  
I swear I can hear footsteps. I hope they're yours.  
They're so... so distant.  
It's so bright in here. The bathroom fluorescents hurt my eyes.

I can't feel my legs or my hands.

I shut my eyes slowly and listen, listen, listen. I...

I. Smell blood. I smell blood.  
I s... I smell....

_You._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...I know they could only have been other— people, who'd _been_ people just the night before, but. Well.  
> I don't want to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why are we here? only to suffer? every time i write anything i keep writing nonsense  
> (im sorry just take this, its the player character's perspective this time, small warning for a brief and sort of gross description of. well. zombie flesh, doing... what zombie flesh does?)

There was only a single set of clothes in the whole house that I could find.

I fought off those... well, fuck, I know they could only have been other— people, who'd _been_ people just the night before, but. Well.  
I don't want to think about it.  
I don't want to think about their flesh drooping and falling from bone and falling to the floor as I strike them with all these empty cans and bottles and, god, fuck, nevermind about the few times I've touched one or two of them, just to push them away...

I take a moment, outside in the back, with the sickly illuminated pool. There's what I don't want to acknowledge as a body floating in it.  
I press my back to the house's siding and I shut my eyes and I breathe, in, out, in—  
There's noises in the bushes. Breathing that isn't mine.

I pulled away from the wall, went around to the source of the noise in the bushes. And someone else is there. Someone alive, someone not like _them._  
I don't see him, in fact he tells me off for trying—  
But he needs clothes too.

I suck in a breath as I push through a gap in the bushes the set of clothes I'd been hunting down for you. I try to tell myself it's no big deal. Maybe there's something in a drawer I missed.

_But I looked in all the drawers in the bedroom and even every room I could after that and I know there's no clothes, no nothing, a guilt gnaws at me, what am I going to tell her? What am I—_

By the time I realize the rustling in the bushes has stopped, he's gone. No further comment. I never even saw the guy or anything.  
He could've had the decency to stick around and help with... Well. Whatever. I guess it doesn't matter now.

-

By the time I'm upstairs again, I swear that faint smell of rotting is back.  
And then I see you.

You're dripping wet, holding together better than the others, for just a moment I wonder if I'm mistaken because you managed to do up a towel around your hair- but no. No.  
It isn't a mistake, and your glazed eyes lock onto my movements as I reach for another empty bottle.  
It's.  
Just.  
Like I did with the others.

I only talked to you once, through a glass shower door.  
It shouldn't be a big deal.  
It isn't anything dramatic. It wasn't anything special.

So why does it hurt to realize I couldn't even do one thing for you?

I take a moment in the hall when you're gone. I don't cry.  
I light one of the cigs I found lying around the house. I take a long, slow drag. I breathe out.  
I move on.

The last thing on my mind now is an unanswered plea for help.


End file.
